In the Morning Light
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: The war is over, and the Slytherins are faced with a new day.::snapshots for Angel


_For the Hogwarts Gift Tag: For Angel who requested the theme "the morning after"_

 _Word Count: 1074_

* * *

The sun rises over Hogwarts. This is not a typical morning. There are no sleepy students climbing out of bed and rubbing their eyes as they wonder if they can sleep for just five more minutes. The professors aren't in their classrooms preparing their lessons for the day.

Instead, the castle is still in chaos. Though the war is over, the damage remains.

* * *

Theo Nott feels rooted to the spot. He watches his father is held tightly by his shoulders. The Aurors do not loosen their grip or acknowledge the man's wild flailing, except for an annoyed, "If you don't cooperate, we _will_ Stun you."

All eyes seem to find Theo, and he knows what they're whispering.

 _Like father, like son._

 _How do we know he isn't one too?_

Though no one dares to ask for proof, he lifts up his sleeves angrily, revealing the blank skin beneath before spitting on the ground and stalking off.

He is not his father. Even when he had felt the pressure to follow in the older man's footsteps, he had resisted. No one will care though. To them, he will just be Theo Nott, another Death Eater's spawn.

Maybe he's almost grudging that the war is over.

* * *

Pansy Parkinson is used to people glaring at her. Over the years, she has carefully crafted her reputation and worn the word _bitch_ like a crown.

This is different. As she watches the sunlight filter through the curtains and bathe the pub in a soft, amber light, she can _feel_ the weight of the glares.

"Why is she even here?" someone grumbles. "She tried to sell Potter out!"

Murmurs raise. Pansy pushes a hand through her dark hair and hops off the bar stool. She turns her attention to the small crowd who continue to whisper amongst themselves and watch her. Her lips twist into a vicious scowl, but her heart isn't into it; even she can tell it's weak. Still, it does the trick. Silence falls, and she turns on her heel.

There's no point hanging around where she isn't wanted. She wonders if she will ever be wanted again, or if she's doomed to always be shunned.

* * *

Gregory Goyle walks past the weird room again and again. Its magic doesn't work anymore. He doesn't know if it's permanent, and he doesn't care. The bloody thing took Crabbe from him.

He comes a stop and slams his knuckles against the brick again and again. The wall doesn't change. His knuckles split, and blood splatters against the wall. Still, nothing happens.

Goyle slumps to the floor, blinking rapidly. He will not cry—crying is weakness, and his father has long since beaten the weakness out of him—but he wants to so badly. Crabbe had been his only friend, the only person who hadn't called him dumb.

And now Crabbe is gone, and Goyle is alone.

He had enjoyed the war for a while. The taste of power, of being important had been intoxicating. Now, he doesn't care anymore. He just wants his best friend back.

* * *

Daphne Greengrass knows that they don't trust her. It doesn't matter that she had fought. Only the members of Dumbledore's Army know that she is an alley.

Still, she keeps her head high as she moves from bed to bed in the hospital wing, dispensing pain potions wherever needed.

Her eyes are heavy. Sleep would be so wonderful right now. But she continues with her work. At the very least, she wants to show the world that some Slytherins fought, there there is still good out there.

"You should take a break," Madam Pomfrey suggests when Daphne collects a fresh tray of potions. "Get some coffee, at the very least."

Daphne offers her a tired smile and shakes her head. "Not yet."

She knows that she cannot clear an entire House's reputation on her own, but she can sure as hell try.

* * *

Draco Malfoy sits in the Great Hall, absently picking at the broken glass that litters the table. In the back of his mind, he is aware that he's sitting at the Hufflepuff table. Ordinarily that would be funny. Now, not so much.

He is exhausted and wants nothing more than to crawl into bed—any bed will do—and sleep for hours. It won't happen. Not yet at least.

He knows what comes next. It's only a matter of time before the Aurors begin counting their prisoners and realize the Malfoys are absent.

His eyes flicker to his father whose head rests against his mother's shoulder. All the fight has gone out of him. Draco understands; there is no point fighting anymore. All he can do is try to make amends.

So, still pushing around pieces of shattered glass, he waits. The idea of being dragged to Azkaban is terrifying, but maybe he deserves it.

* * *

Blaise Zabini watches from the shadows. No one seems to remember he's in the pub at all, and that's just the way he likes it. Over the years, he has learned exactly how to lay low and blend in. It's kept him alive throughout this war.

He raises a hand, signaling for another glass of wine.

Some are celebrating the victory while others grieve around him.

Blaise, however, takes a sip of wine and smiles. All he cares about is that he's still alive. Nothing else is his concern.

* * *

Horace Slughorn comes to a stop at the end of the corridor and exhales deeply as he pinches the bridge of his nose. It's over; it's finally over. But he feels as though a weight is still pressing against his chest.

He turns and studies the corridor for a moment. The dead have not yet been moved, and their bodies line the halls. Some are surrounded by family and friends who have already begun to mourn. Others are alone.

Good. Evil. Both sides were his students. He doesn't only mourn for those like Colin Creevey and Remus Lupin.

Bellatrix Lestrange had been his student too. Horace had watched her struggle with Potions but excel at Transfiguration. She'd had so much potential, and knowing her fate brings a tear to his eye.

Tom Riddle had been a bright boy. Horace doesn't think he's taught anyone who quite matches his brilliance since. But that boy is gone, and the cruel man he had grown into is dead now.

With a heavy sigh, Horace continues his trek to his office. He needs to be alone.


End file.
